


Scent of Skin

by liripip



Series: Silk, spice and everything nice [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liripip/pseuds/liripip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Afterwards, they lay tangled in an exhausted heap, sweaty and giddy and quite unable to stop touching each other. Anders mumbles something about never, ever wanting to leave, and Hawke answers with something ridiculous about sandwiches, but it's his sandwiches and he's offering them, and Anders vaguely remembers something Karl used to say about a Fereldan offering to share his food being practically a marriage proposal."<br/>A sex scene that somehow dragged on for seventeen pages. Banter and lewd comments about mustard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent of Skin

Anders remembers most of the beds he's spent more than a single, unremarkable night in, as far back as his memory goes.

When he was very little, he didn't have a bed of his own, instead sleeping snug and safe in his parents bed, grasping at his mother's hand. He has vague memories of his father, never much of a carpenter, knocking together a crude bed for him to sleep in when he was deemed old enough to move out into the kitchen, swearing cheerfully all the time. He sometimes wonder when his father stopped loving him, if it was a gradual thing or a sudden one, like a bucket of cold water dropped down his back when his son turned out to have magic.

He remembers the bunk beds in the apprentice dorms, always creaking, and the sense of insecurity he got every time a bed's occupant was mysteriously absent at lights-out, each time a new frightened child took their place. The mage beds had been little better, really, but at least his roommates were not whisked away now and then to return with vacant eyes or not at all. By then, he was spending every night he could in Karl's bed, anyway, and it was cramped and warm and smelled like tea, and with Karl's arms thrown haphazardly around him he'd felt _safe_ for the first time since he'd left home kicking and screaming and helpless. He knew it was a fiction even then, wasn't actually surprised when Karl did nothing to stop the Templars dragging him off to Solitary – he'd tried to explain to Anders that he was lucky, that anyone but a healer would have been made tranquil for sure – but a fiction of security was still better than nothing at all. So when he was finally released, head spinning and mind reeling from the unfamiliarity of the world outside his cell, he'd choked down any feelings of betrayal and sought refuge in Karl's room, where the older man had silently stroked his back while he cried and cried and cried.

He doesn't remember a lot of the beds he slept in on the run, the nights he could either afford or charm his way into one, but he remembers the ones in the Pearl, crimson and pink silk sheets over rough straw mattresses, a thin veneer of luxury over a common whorehouse. That was really what he'd liked so well with the Pearl, what he suspected was its real selling point. It was a place were the outside was everything, a place where broken people could pretend that a bath, a new set of clothes and a fair but unremarkable fuck was all that was needed to heal a troubled soul. And he remembers the beds in Vigil's Keep, rough straw _without_ the silk-covering but with a rich helping of fleas, and how he would have started a damned uprising demanding better accommodations, had not the bloody Warden Commander and bloody Nathaniel Howe exposed their noble arses to the same nightly torture with unnerving cheer. He'd liked them both, really, but theirs was a rough kind of camaraderie, and they were both bloody arseholes about the whole thing. Anders preferred his delicate mage skin free of hives, thank you very much.

At least he's free of that particular problem now. Not even fleas want to live in Darktown.

Hawke's bed, though, is possibly the nicest he's ever seen. Certainly the nicest he's ever been pulled down onto, not only because of the firm body of its owner squirming against him. If anything, that firm body is detracting from his enjoyment of the bed as a piece of art and instead redirecting his attention to a whole-hearted enjoyment of said body, and the way that body's mouth is moving under his own.

Aside from the soft crackle of the fire and the barely audible creaking of Anders leather coat, the house is silent. The dwarves are away somewhere, Leandra is dining with some noble family or other, and the slavering beast – sorry, _mabari_ – is asleep in front of the dining room fireplace. The bed is still full of dog hair, though, tickling the palms of Anders' hands where he braces himself above Hawke. Hawke, who lies half propped up on an elbow, relaxed and easy and grinning lazily, not nearly nervous enough for one apparently so inexperienced. Anders own mouth is dry, his throat tight. There was a time he considered himself good at this, both the seduction and the carnal act itself, but that feels like a long time ago and impressing his partner never seemed quite so soul-searingly important then as it does now.

Hawke shifts, pulling one foot up on the bed and pressing himself up a few inches, and wow, those thin silk trousers he insists on wearing around the estate really works wonders to show off his... assets. Tight and thin enough that Hawke's arousal is obvious, but not so tight that Anders' curiosity is in any way slaked.

There's a thin sliver of taut stomach visible in the gap between waistband and rumpled jacket, and the soft collar is falling open slightly to reveal a well-sculpted collarbone. Anders swallows thickly, mesmerized.

Can people even have beautiful collarbones? He isn't sure. He can't recall ever seeing a particularly _unattractive_ collarbone, but then he never stared at one so hard as he's doing now. There is a small dent in the perfect curve, a mark of an old injury. He remembers that time, after a run-in with an ogre in the Deep Roads, remembers the horrible, gurgling wheeze Hawke made as Anders worked desperately to pull his caved in ribs out of his lung before it was too late. A slightly crooked collarbone as only evidence of that ordeal is a pretty solid testament to his skill, he thinks, shifting his weight to one hand to lightly brush a fingertip over the imperfection. Had it been on the other side, over his heart, Hawke would have died in moments, Anders never having a chance to do a thing.

It's a sobering thought, really, the fragility of life. It also makes it all the more precious when Hawke arches into his touch with a soft noise like a cat being petted, his head falling back to expose his throat.

Well, thinks Anders, it's a good a place to start as any.

****

“Nnngh, Anders!” whines Hawke – he whines, really, there's no other way to say it, big strong man with a liberal dusting of chest-hair that he is – and it's silly, because Anders has been off him for less than five seconds, struggling vainly to free his wrists from the tight sleeves of his feathered jacket. Which is hard, apparently, despite the hundreds of times he's successfully gotten out of that very jacket before, on occasions when it felt far less urgent. Maybe it's something to do with the currently somewhat lessened amount of blood flowing to his brain, because getting undressed is not the _only_ thing that is hard, hurr hurr, or maybe it's because of Hawke, looking far too tempting for Anders to properly focus on anything else.

He can vaguely sense the part of his mind that is Justice observing him dispassionately, before stepping in with a figurative sigh to untangle his shaking hands from the offending article of clothing before he hurts himself. _Thanks_ , he thinks at the spirit, but Justice just retreats, wary and perhaps not entirely as devoid of curiosity as the spirit would like to pretend. _It's alright_ , he thinks, trying to comfort, _it's me that wants him. You're not falling. DESIRE IS A DEMON'S FEELING_ , Justice answers him, and the spirit's obvious discomfort, is, well, Anders' discomfort too. That's the thing with sharing emotions with a fade spirit. _Love isn't_ , he tries. _Love is good. LOVE IS_ DANGEROUS, _MORTAL._

Then the internal dialogue is cut short by Hawke's hand curling behind his head, and he is pulled back down for another kiss, hair tickling his face as it tumbles down, Hawke tossing the discarded tie off to the left somewhere.

“Anders,” he whispers, “everything alright?”, and his voice is rough with want.

“It's Justice,” Anders admits, “he's... nervous, I guess.” Hawke chuckles, low and warm.

“His first time, is it?” Hawke smirks, strokes a hand over Anders' arse. “Tell 'im I'll be gentle.”

Anders feels his face scrunch up in distaste. Whenever he visualizes Justice, he sees him in Kristoff's body, caught forever on those last weeks before they joined, with his lips dried back in a skeletal grimace and his nose... Let's just say it wasn't pretty. And he knows Hawke never saw that, thinks of Justice as a bluer, angrier Anders (who somehow has a much deeper voice, and how in Maker's name does _that_ work?) but the mental images he gets when Hawke says that are just... No.

Hawke notices his expression, misunderstands.

“Look, Anders,” he says, in a this-was-a-bad-idea-let's-forget-it-ever-happened-voice, “if this is hard for you, I–” Thankfully, that's all he gets out before Anders' libido takes the reins and crushes their mouths together. Hawke tastes like spices and red wine, remnants of dinner and a few doses of liquid courage, and when he opens his mouth fully and starts kissing back it's absolutely intoxicating. He may be innocent and untainted compared to Anders positively scandalous past – he was barely thirteen the first time things got decidedly south of appropriate, when he was fifteen he had a fling with a girl with certain... Exhibitionist tendencies who got off more on being caught than anything he could do to her, and then there had been Karl. Karl had been bloody spectacular in bed, and a master at self-control. Once, Anders had snuck under the table and sucked him off during a private meeting with the First Enchanter, and the way the man just sat there, calmly discussing next year's curriculum and sipping tea, had had Anders seriously doubting his skills. That is, doubting his skills until Irving _finally_ left and Karl had groaned and hauled him out and fucked him over the table until he squealed – but Hawke is no novice kisser.

“No?” Hawke whispers, and there is a definitive edge of panting to the breath washing over Anders' neck. “Because I've never had a threesome before, least of all with a spirit, and I –”

“Maker, don't _say_ that. It's not like that.”

“Really? Because I was about to offer to dress up like an abstract ideal and I think he'd like that.”

“Hawke. Stop talking.”

“Never.”

But then he's kissing Anders again, because he isn't always truthful, and Anders is fumbling with the ties to Hawke's silk smoking jacket. It falls open under his hands, and he strokes his palms over Hawke's chest, soft hairs lightly covering warm skin, down his sides along the faint lines of his ribs.

Hawke groans against his lips, hips raising up to rub against Anders'.

“Actually, I, uh,” he says, breaking the kiss. His eyes are wide, pleading, beautiful. “I've never been with a man before.”

“I know,” Anders whispers, and of course it's the entirely wrong thing to say. Hawke stiffens against him, hazy look in his eyes suddenly sharpening, shutting him out, a self-deprecating laugh on his lips.

 _Fuck._

“That obvious, huh?” he says, idly scratching the rough trail of hair leading down from his navel, steadfastly refusing to meet Anders' eyes.

 _Fuck dammit shit_ , Anders tells himself, and Justice scowls at him in disapproval. A ' _MIND YOUR LANGUAGE, MORTAL_ ' seems just a breath away. Whatever.

“No, no, you're doing great, I...” He trails off, momentarily stumped, because how does one tell one's new lover – is it even a lover yet before you fuck? – that one was watching them with someone else, without their knowledge or consent, hiding out in a closet like some creepy bastard who never, ever gets laid. Not that Anders has gotten laid in _years_. Maybe he is a creepy bastard now.

Justice scoffs in his mind. _What,_ he shoots back, annoyed, _don't even_ pretend _you know crap about this. I DO NOT_ , the spirit answers, _BUT YOU WILL TELL HIM. IF WE MUST GO ABOUT THIS, WE WILL NOT DO SO UNDER FALSE PRETENSES._

The 'OR ELSE' does not need to be voiced, well, thought, Anders hears it all too clearly anyway. Well. He's never really tried honesty before, so why not give it a chance? Desperate times, you know.

“I was watching you,” he says, “with Isabela. When she took you.” Hawke blinks, face reddening, eyes opening wide in surprise. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! She...” He gulps, bites his lip as Hawke stares at him. “She locked me in a closet.”

Hawke blinks. Then, to Anders surprise and eternal relief, he starts to laugh, small giggles at first and then huge, chest-wracking guffaws that shake them both as Hawke hugs him tight, thick solid arms wrapped around his back.

“She locked you in a closet?” he says once he's calmed down a little. “And now you're here. Maker, that woman is the best friend I've ever had.”

Anders smiles, rubbing the tip of his nose along Hawke's.

“Mmm. She also has a bet with Varric about us hooking up.”

That sends Hawke into another fit of laughter, and this time Anders chuckles along with him, because it really is kind of funny.

“Flames, I love her.” Hawke starts, swallows. “I mean, not the way I– Uh, never mind. Not like, _romantically_ love her, just you know, she got you into my bed, and I–”

“I love you.”

“You do?”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” He smiles, nuzzles his nose against a sharp cheekbone. “But you were embarrassing yourself, so...” His eyes narrow shrewdly. “You _were_ about to tell me you loved me, no?”

Hawke grins, almost shyly, and shakes his head in amusement.

“Only by accident, I promise.” He laughs softly, tangling his fingers in the long hair at Anders' nape. “Maker's balls, Anders, I'm a _mess_ at these things and even I know you don't say that on the first night.”

Hawke is smiling though, open and guileless, toying idly with Anders hair. Anders is well aware he hasn't said anything back, that he almost certainly doesn't feel as strongly about him as he does about Hawke – how could he, really? Anders has a spirit inside him that seems to amplify every emotion. He'd liked Karl well enough, had wanted to run away with him and live in in sin and as-yet-unfinanced decadence in Antiva, but he's never _felt_ anything like this before – but Hawke is smiling at him, brushing a finger tenderly just underneath his bottom lip before dropping his hands to Anders' thighs straddling him, and he'll take what he can get.

“Mmm, sorry,” Anders says, without a shred of regret.

“I guess you can make it up to me,” Hawke breathes, then grins. “So I'm not awful at this?”

“Maker, no,” Anders says. “You're wonderful. You're perfect.”

“You sure? Because I could still role-play a virtue. I was thinking frugality.”

Anders lifts an eyebrow, tears his eyes away from Hawke's teasing smile to take in the riches around them. His eyes sweep over the embroidered silk of the bedspread, past the exquisite woodwork of the dresser, the elegant and no doubt _expensive_ wooden panelling and draperies. Even the chamber pot looks expensive, and quite possibly gilded. Hawke is generous and seemingly uncorrupted by his wealth, but he still wallows in luxury without apparently noticing.

“...really.”

“Too on the nose?” he asks, fumbling at the buckles of Anders coat. “What about punctuality?” Hawke is late everywhere, always. It's a wonder anyone trusts him with anything. Anders snorts, amused despite himself. “Or cleanliness, maybe?”

“Oh? You smell clean enough.” He bends down, licks a stripe from the hollow of Hawke's throat up to the well-trimmed edge of his beard. A buckle releases, Hawke's hands brushing lower to start on the next. “Like soap. And dog, but reasonably clean dog.”

“I'm Fereldan, aren't I? We're supposed to smell like dogs. And mud. Part of the charm, father always said.” His grin turns decidedly leering. “But I have a very dirty mind.” The last buckle lets go, and Hawke's hands slips inside his coat, dropping a light caress up his spine. “There's this healer I know, and the things I've been thinking about _him_...”

“Oh,” exhales Anders, rising to his knees to shrug the coat off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Hawke's lips quirk in a crooked grin, stopping and staring. Anders would be flattered, but it's definitely more of an amused, incredulous stare than a lustful one. His left eyebrow slowly ascends his forehead in silent question. “...what?”

“Andraste's _arse_ , Anders. That is the _ugliest_ shirt I have ever seen.” Anders other eyebrow rises archly as he regards Hawke. “I can't even tell what colour it's supposed to be!” Anders huffs, looking down his nose. It is a long, narrow nose, excellently suited for stern looks, something a healer always finds use for. He likes to think it makes him look noble, though considering the amounts of sheer _nose_ Nate could bring to a party, he is considerably lacking in that particular department. Hawke blinks up at him, all innocence. “I... Could buy you a new one? If Justice doesn't approve of shirts?”

He's pretty close to the truth, actually. Justice won't condone the buying of a new undershirt while the one they have is still perfectly adequate, plus/minus a few inexpertly patched holes, not while there's still such a wealth of injustice in the world. Most days, Anders doesn't mind. This shirt is worn soft and comfortable, and Justice allows him a little bit of vanity with his feathered jacket, as long as he doesn't waste money on it and only patches it when there really is nothing more useful he could be doing. Now, though... He supposes it _is_ sort of worn, with elbows patched with whatever he could find, and... dingy. Once upon a time, when he was still with the Wardens and was still a rather vain man, it had been a soft creamy white, but now it's stained yellow with old sweat under the arms, brown splotches of coagulated blood mars it wherever his coat doesn't cover it, and now that he really looks at it, the gradient from dirty gray-brown at the hem to dirty beige at his waist, where it is perhaps least discoloured, is really quite unattractive. It's clean, cleanliness is important in his line of work and he boils all his textiles in lye every week, but he has neither the skill nor the inclination to deal with the stains, and it doesn't _look_ clean.

Maybe he needs a new shirt. Maybe he should ask Hawke if he can ask Bodahn to do his laundry now and then, because the dwarf seems to be a genius at housework.

Hawke leans forward, presses his lips against the side of Anders' throat, keeping well away from the grey, fraying neckline.

“Mmh, Anders?” he whispers, slipping his hands under the hemline and skimming them up Anders' clothed thighs. “He's right, you know,” he mumbles after a whispered 'yes', “you wearing shirts is a terrible injustice. You should stop.” He tugs the shirt over Anders' head, throwing it on the floor. “Make the world a better place.”

“Hawke.” The kisses pressed to his collarbones, the feel of Hawke's hands stroking up his sides and the warm press of his cock, nudging against Anders' with just a few thin layers of fabric in between, and how deliriously _happy_ he is, combine to make it hard to sound stern.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

The lazy grin he gets in return is nothing short of wicked.

“Make me.”

Well, now. That is an invite if ever he heard one.

With exaggerated care, he scoots up Hawke's chest, ending up straddling his chest and pinning his arms under his shins. Then, levelling his gaze in silent challenge, Anders ever so slowly starts loosening the lacing of his breeches.

Hawke holds his gaze for a few heartbeats, his breathing growing laboured, then his eyes flick down to Anders' crotch and he moans softly in his throat, licking his lips. It takes most of Anders' self-control to not just come right there, smearing his release all over Hawke's yearning face and sweet, slightly parted lips.

The moment his cock is free, Hawke lunges for it. Anders intercepts him easily, catching him with a palm to the forehead and pressing him back down. Hawke whimpers, and Anders can feel the man's hips shift uselessly, looking for something to rub against and finding nothing.

“Anders, please...”

“Sssh,” he soothes, lazily stroking himself. Hawke's eyes follow the motions as if hypnotized. “Be still. Close your eyes.” Hawke licks his lips again and swallows thickly, but he does as he's asked. Anders allows himself a few deep breaths to regain some semblance of self-control, then strokes his foreskin back and inches forward to lightly touch the moist, sensitive head of his cock to Hawke's lips. Hawke jerks underneath him, whole body tense, but he stays still as Anders counts silently to ten, rubbing his cock in small circles over Hawke's lips. “Suck,” he says finally, and Hawke pulls himself up with a little moan, strong abdominals bunching under his weight, and takes him into his mouth.

****

Hawke may be inexperienced, but Anders thinks he may have gotten lucky and spotted some genuine talent. The man takes to it easily enough, mouth wet and hot and tongue swirling around his cock, careful with his teeth but not scared to scrape just a little. Anders reminds himself that it's not like Hawke is a _virgin_ , he's surely been on the receiving end of this more than a few times.

It's not so much about skill; You do, after all, have to fuck up pretty hard to make a blowjob feel _bad_. It's more about enthusiasm, about attitude. It's about the look of relief on Hawke's face, like he has been longing for this just as much as Anders has, like he's enjoying it just as much.

It's probably a good thing that the awkward angle keeps him from swallowing more than a hand's width of Anders' length, or he'd be gagging himself in his eagerness.

Hawke whimpers, his muffled noises causing a wonderful vibration that echoes up Anders spine, making him shiver. He shifts his weight to his knees and slides forward just a bit, pushing deeper into Hawke's mouth and fucking it shallowly. Hawke tries to speak, words garbled, and Anders pulls back to make sure he's alright, only to realize that Hawke is, Maker, Hawke is _begging_ – ' _fuck, Anders, please, Anders, I need you, pleasepleaseplease_ ' – and it shouldn't be that big of a surprise, really, because he's obviously vocal, was going on in much the same way with Isabela, but. It combines with everything else, and it's been _so long_ since Anders has felt anything but his own roughened palm. With a choked cry, he grabs onto Hawke's hair and thrusts once, twice – every shred of his self-control trained on not pushing too deep – before he slumps forward and spills against the roof of Hawke's mouth.

Braced on his arms against the headboard, he feels more than hears Hawke groan, eager tongue lapping at his over-sensitized head, tongue stroking him wonderfully as he swallows. With Anders momentarily out of commission, Hawke's arms are free, and he is using that opportunity to slowly stroke himself, one hand dipping into the waistband of his rumpled trousers, the other one trying to tug Anders' breeches down his hips, hindered by his splayed thighs.

“Mnhff,” he says, Anders' cock slipping out of his mouth, and presses his nose against the loosened laces. “You smell nice.”

Anders' lips twitch in a silent grin as he combs a hand through mussed black hair, stroking it back from Hawke's forehead. It's sweet, really, the contentment on his face as he nuzzles against Anders' groin. Then he groans softly, and Anders belatedly remembers that he's still touching himself.

“Oh, you are _not_ bringing yourself off,” he says and grabs Hawke's offending wrist, chuckling at the betrayed look in Hawke's eyes as they snap open. Anders leans forward, whispers his next words against Hawke's parted lips. “I'm not done with you yet.”

“Maker, I hope not.”

***

The red silk whispers as it slides over Hawke's skin, Anders' hands following close in its wake. The small hairs growing on Hawke's thighs tickle against his palms, not as prickly as his beard but still noticeable, and dark against surprisingly pale skin. Hawke tans easily enough, golden brown and looking older than his actual years, but the skin that rarely sees sunlight is paler than Anders' own rosy colouring, almost milky. Smiling, Anders leans down, laps at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, just above the knee. Hawke stiffens, hips bucking slightly, and Anders thinks he can see an actual twitch of his cock through his straining smallclothes. Experimentally, he scrapes the rough stubble of his cheek along the inside of his thigh, prompting a small grunt from Hawke, followed by a throaty moan when he licks the reddened skin, finding a vein and trailing it to the back of his knee.

He lifts his head, just admires for a second. Hawke isn't really a big man; he's a few fingers shorter than Anders, who is admittedly tall, and he doesn't really pop with statuesque muscle definition, but he's _solid_. Reassuringly so, noticeably heavier than Anders without an ounce seeming superfluous, thicker in the trunk and shorter in the limbs. Supple, perhaps, certainly flexible, and perfectly balanced, standing firm or dancing away with equal ease. Poetry in flesh, and not the kind of poetry wherein frail maidens waste away waiting for their one true love, daintily clutching a wilting rose. The kind of poetry that is sun and sweat and blood and dust, and somewhat fuzzy as to if it is about sex or war or both. Anders has never read any of those poems, admittedly. The Circle preferred the wasting-away-in-a-tower kind and since his escape he hasn't had much time for reading, on account of being too busy running – first _from_ Templars, which seems sensible enough, then somehow _towards_ broodmothers and dragons and giant spiders and the like, something that can probably be attributed to the extremely charismatic and also _heroic_ types he tends to fall in with.

One of whom is currently stretched out beneath him, looking delectable. Or... something. A manlier form of delectable, perhaps, like sweetmeats with chest hair, only that particular example sounds quite vile. Sweetmeats with chest hair, but in a _good_ way.

Blessedly free of the delicate, willowy mage-build that seems to follow hand in hand with magic. Elegant, perhaps, and very becoming in robes, but also grounds for Anders' tendency to _fall over_ , something that can be detrimental in a fight. Anders used to blame it on the Circle, on how growing mages was kept from any serious physical exercise other than climbing stairs and snogging in corners, thereby inhibiting muscular development in interest of keeping mages subdued, or at the very least easy to throw over a shoulder and carry off, but it seemed to affect Merrill and Bethany just as much. Perhaps it was the Maker, deciding to even the stakes by giving His most powerful children an added handicap of toppling over in a stiff breeze, as if they didn't have enough to contend with already.

His mouth finds the small area between the tendons at the back of the knee, ticklish and sensitive and tasting of fresh sweat. Hawke's breath hitches in his throat when he suckles, watching Anders intently with half-lidded eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He shifts a little, trying to further spread his legs with his feet still tangled in the trousers bunched around his ankles, but otherwise he's staying put. His hands are still where Anders put them, pressing them into the mattress with a firm grip on his wrists, only having moved to clench in the bunched up coverlet.

Such a good boy, really. Anders shouldn't be teasing him like this, not his first time.

“Hawke,” he breathes in the man's ear once he's stretched out on top of him, feet clumsily managing to push his trousers the rest of the way off once Hawke figures out why he's toeing him and starts cooperating.

“Anders...” whispers Hawke, his beard tickling Anders' cheek as he speaks. He spreads his legs at Anders' silent urging, letting him lie cradled between them, cock flush against cock, separated by a thin layer of fine linen. Why isn't he naked yet? Anders isn't sure, though it may be related to how much fun it was to peel Hawke's clothing off as slowly as he possibly could. “Maker, Anders, _touch me, please_ , I – ”

Anders pulls back , wry smile on his face, and gently presses a silencing finger against Hawke's lips.

“Sssh, Hawke,” he says, sitting up to stroke his hands over Hawke's torso, playing with a nipple until Hawke squirms for him, hips thrusting vainly against nothing. There's a moist spot where the head of his cock is pressed against the his smallclothes, pre-come slowly soaking through the linen, turning it just a little bit transparent. Anders cannot help himself when he notices it, just drops his thumb, already slick with spit to feel better against a nipple, and presses it to that little mouth-watering spot.

Hawke bites back a shout, hips jerking against Anders' hand, and arches his back beautifully, exposing his throat. Anders wonders if it's some sort of Fereldan thing, something they've picked up from their beloved Mabari. A show of submission, perhaps, though if the intention is to make Anders back off it is sorely failing. He read once about a man who'd found an orphaned tiger cub and taken it in, and years later his faithful companion had torn out his throat on instinct after he fell and tipped his head back. Anders feels some of those same instincts now, cat person that he is, though without the whole tearing bit. The tanned column of Hawke's throat, outlined with sleek muscle and contoured with tendons, looks too good to resist, and he is beyond even trying, leaning forward again with a muffled groan to press his lips against it, teeth gently scraping over his larynx. A quick fumble between their bodies, and his hand is shoved inside Hawke's smalls, fingers curling around firm flesh, and then they're kissing again, feverishly, Hawke's hands coming up to clutch at his sides.

Hawke groans into his mouth as he strokes him, skin velvet soft against the backdrop of coarse hair around it, and cants his hips up to grind against his hand. He's sweaty, coiled tight with built-up tension, and close, so close, Anders can feel it in how his cock quivers, how his balls are pulling up tight against his body. It takes a burst of mental effort, but he tears himself away before Hawke falls over the edge, tumbling into blissful oblivion.

“Hnnng,” Hawke all but keens in frustration, “dammit, stop _teasing_ and _do something_!”

“Yes,” Anders manages to force out between panting breaths – Maker, he's further gone than _Hawke_ even, hard again, so hard, and it aches but feels so good at the same time – “yes, I want to, I –” and he cuts himself off, catching Hawke's mouth in a bruising kiss, loses himself for a moment in the feel of Hawke's tongue against his, the taste of him, still with a faint nuance of come, the press of teeth against his lower lip. “Hawke,” he says, somewhat more coherently, once he resurfaces. “please, I need to know. How long since you've been with Isabela?”

Hawke blinks at him, tilting his head in confusion.

“Uh, about two weeks, a few days less?” He smirks. “Jealous, are we? There's enough of me to go around, I promise.” When Anders looks unconvinced, his face softens slightly, smile moving imperceptibly from his lips to the crinkles around his eyes. “Look, me and 'Bela, it was just sex, y'know?”

Anders does know, has had more than his fair share of 'just sex' in the past, and there's a silent promise in there too. Not quite an I-love-you-too, but at least a confirmation that Hawke wants something more from him than just a quick tumble with a bit of recreational magic thrown in. He smiles, kisses Hawke again just because he can, smiles against Hawke's cheek.

“Actually,” he mumbles, rubbing the tip of his nose along Hawke's. “I was more worried about what you might have picked up. Any rashes? Burning sensations? Strange itches?”

“Uh, no. She's using some sort of tea for protection.”

“Yes, but that's to keep her from conceiving, love.” The endearment slips out unintentionally, but Hawke doesn't shy away from it.

“You sure?”

Anders laughs a little.

“Who do you think makes it for her?”

“Ah.” Hawke stills, stroking his palms down Anders sides to cup his arse, one thumb tracing small idle circles over his tail-bone. It feels nice, promising. Hawke rather obviously likes being held down and told what to do, and Anders is hardly complaining, quite the opposite in fact, but he still hopes he'll be able to convince Hawke to bend him over a table and fuck him silly, at least on occasion. Namedays and Saturnalias, that kind of thing, a man needs a good pounding now and then to keep his wits about him. “Uhm,” says Hawke cautiously, “in case I did catch something, can't you just... fix it?”

“Not without knowing what it is, no,” Anders says with a sigh. He's waited so long for this, to have Hawke stretched out mostly naked and eager beneath him, too long to be satisfied with a quick handjob. Waiting the prescribed six to eight weeks is not an option he wishes to consider. On the other hand, there's currently a minor epidemic of Antivan pox in Kirkwall's more unsavoury districts, and if he knows Isabela at all she probably has a hand in it. It's curable, and mostly harmless save for the discomfort – _an itch like a bitch_ , Isabela had described it to him, laughing at the rhyme – and he's prepared to take the risk, really, because he's feeling more than a little desperate and irresponsible right now.

In the end, Hawke makes the decision for him.

“Anders,” he says, eyes wide. “If you stop now, I will stab you.”

Well, Anders argues with himself, we can't have that, can we?

****

Hawke lets his hands trail limply behind him as Anders grabs his ankles and slowly drags him to the foot of the bed, where he can kneel on the floor with Hawke spread out like a buffet before him. Just for good measure, Anders presses a pillow down on top of those hands, stretched above Hawke's head. It's a wholly symbolical form of restraint, but Hawke grins lecherously at it all the same. Then Anders is tugging his smallclothes off his hips, and suddenly Hawke is finally naked before him. He's gorgeous, he thinks, the muscles of his back and stomach creating beautiful lines of shadow as they play over the bones of his hips. The dark hair that trails down his stomach is thick and wild, his cock jutting out of it proudly, thick and ruddy and curving slightly to the left. Anders hears himself groaning, biting his lip at the sight.

“Touch me?” Hawke asks, hips doing little humping motions against the air. It's more endearing than it is sexy, really, but Hawke is sexy enough as it is. With a smile, one he feels he used to wear a lot more often in years past, Anders sinks to his knees and bends his head to the task.

He enjoys how Hawke tastes, he decides almost immediately. Clean, but not the squeaky clean of just-stepped-out-of-the-bath, but none of the unpleasant tastes or smells of not having bathed in a while either. Slightly salty, with a hint of bitterness when he swipes his tongue over the pre-come gathered around Hawke's slit, musky and male when he temporarily abandons Hawke's cock to move lower, mouthing at his ballsack before licking as far back as he can reach, the tip of his tongue brushing the sensitive and oft-neglected skin between his balls and his arse.

“Aahhh,” Hawke cries at that, spreading his thighs and lifting one foot to rest on the edge of the mattress, opening his body up for Anders to explore. He takes his chance, licking the pad of his thumb to slick it and pressing it firmly behind his balls, massaging the roots of Hawke's cock, making him groan.

Kissing every inch of skin that passes under his lips, he makes his way up again until he has his closed lips pressed to the head of Hawke's cock. He waits there, thumb rubbing in slow ovals between Hawke's balls and just before his opening, until Hawke pulls himself up in a very attractive display of abdominal muscles to lean on his elbows. Anders catches his eyes, smiles impishly, and sinks down, all the way until his nose is pressed into surprisingly soft pubic hair.

Hawke watches him, lustily at first, breathing quick and heavy, then with increasing surprise as Anders takes all of him and holds, holds until his throat spasms around the intrusion. It's not the most pleasant sensation, but the way Hawke moans and spasms along with it more than makes up for the discomfort.

“Maker... Anders, uhn, fuck... ah...” he gasps between heavy breaths once Anders pulls up for air, tongue lavishing attention at the swollen head of his cock. “That was fucking incredible.”

Anders smiles at that, and does it again. And again, fingers stroking Hawke's balls, gently rolling them in their sack, reaching his tongue as far back as he can to lick at them while the muscles in his throat work Hawke's cock for him, lone finger wetted from excess saliva working back towards his hole to finally press demandingly against it. Sensitive flesh pucker against the pressure, twitching slightly in anticipation.

“Yes,” groans Hawke, “yes, Anders, fuck me, I want it...”

That firmly established, Anders swipes his fingertips through the wetness gathered at the root of Hawke's cock and slowly pushes his smallest finger inside the shivering man before him.

Hawke moans, arching his back and biting into the thick callus just below his thumb, and Anders pulls back so he can watch the expressions flickering across Hawke's face, impatience warring with bliss only to be replaced with distress when he pulls his finger out and starts looking for his beltpouch, knowing he thought to bring a vial of oil with him.

“Drawer,” Hawke grinds out, ignoring all of Anders previous instructions to reach a hand down and fist his cock, still slick and wet with Anders' spit. “Bedside table. Please.”

Anders half-crawls, half-stumbles to the table in question, and yes, there is indeed a bottle of oil. A quite large one, only half full. Hawke has been practising, he thinks with a smile, and then he thinks that Hawke quite possibly has been _practising_ whilst thinking of _him_ , and his heartbeat thunder in his veins at the thought.

Back on the floor between Hawke's knees, one of his legs firmly planted on the tiled floor and the other looped over Anders' shoulder, his rump hanging off the bed, and his oil-slicked middle finger slides quite easily inside Hawke, quickly finding the swollen gland that should make all sorts of pleasant things happen. It does; one gentle press against it and Hawke's breath hitches, his hips trashing against Anders hand holding them in place. One slightly harder press, and Hawke groans deeply while a familiar but half-forgotten taste blooms on Anders tongue. He pulls back, licking his lips and watching, and presses again. True enough, a drop of milky fluid bleeds out of the slit, trickling slowly to the side over the wet flesh. Another finger eases in and presses, Hawke moaning and biting at his hand to muffle it, and a thicker bead of fluid seeps out to gather at the apex of his cock. Anders leans forward to lick it up, and then he's taking Hawke to the hilt again, moving enthusiastically upon the rigid flesh in his mouth whilst probing and scissoring with his fingers, pleasuring and stretching both.

Anders has always enjoyed using his mouth. Used to think he was good at it, though in retrospect he can tell that was more youthful enthusiasm than any particular innate talent. Still, his enthusiasm and possibly misplaced confidence granted him a lot of opportunities to practice, on men and women both, and he likes to think that where he may initially have been overestimating his talent experience will compensate. Perhaps he can share some of that experience, he thinks, lips quirking around Hawke's cock while quick fantasies on training the man in the noble art of cock-sucking flit through his mind. Anders remembers how Karl trained _him_ , groans at the memory and the thought of Hawke similarly kneeling at his feet, his fingers threaded through dark hair to keep him in place while Anders slowly fucks his throat. Hawke, the real one, not born of his fantasies, groan and tugs at his hair, hips moving quickly to alternately impale himself on Anders fingers, alternately bury his cock deep in his throat, and Anders is tempted to let him continue, let him fuck himself over the precipice to spill over his tongue in an explosion of intimacy.

He won't though, not right now, because Hawke asked to be fucked and, _by the Maker_ , Anders will comply with that request.

He pulls his fingers out, and Hawke whines in protest until Anders rises to his feet, oil-slick fist pumping his cock, and Hawke groans instead.

“Oh _fuck_....” he breathes, “ _yes_. How do you,” he stops, licks his lips eagerly with his eyes fixed on Anders' cock, “how do you want me?”

In every position ever chronicled, Anders thinks to himself, and a few I made up just for you. And then you can do it back to me. But a man has to start somewhere, and there is one particular way of _having_ that has been haunting him ever since he saw Hawke with Isabela and realized that he not only had a pretty decent chance of charming himself into Hawke's bed, but also that Hawke liked being _taken_. And take him Anders will, in the most aggressive way he thinks he can pull off.

“I love you,” he says breathily, grabbing a leg and leaning over Hawke's body to grasp hold of his jaw, forcing him to look into his eyes while Anders slick cock nestles against his own, stroking it with every shift of Anders hips. “and if you'll have me, I want to spend the rest of my life at your side. But right now,” his voice turns into a growl, his grip on Hawke's jaw tightening. “Right now, I want to turn you over, hold you down, and _fuck you until you see stars_.” His grip eases, and he leans closer, whispering hotly in Hawke's ear. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, _Maker_ , fuck, please, Anders, I'm yours, I –” Hawke is flushed, noticeably more so than before Anders spoke, and the look on his face pleads far more eloquently than any of the jumbled mess of words he manages to express, hips moving against Anders' in short bursts.

“Stop talking,” Anders suggests. “Roll over.”

****

The first push in is a tight fit despite the preparation, Hawke's muscles clenching nervously once Anders' cock nudges at his entrance. Anders rests a hand on the small of his back and lets a trickle of healing magic surge though him, soothing. Hawke makes a small pleased sound, so Anders does it again, a long slow wave of creation energy flowing up Hawke's spine while the head of Anders' cock negotiates its way past clenching muscle.

After that it's easy going, Hawke smooth and oh so blessedly tight inside, beautifully responsive to everything Anders does. Anders grabs his hips and experiments with their angle, finding one where each thrust makes Hawke grunt, hands scrabbling for purchase in the rumpled sheets.

“There?” Anders asks, timing his question to a forceful push inside

“Yesyesyes _ohMakermore_!” Hawke gasps, trying to push back as well as he can in the awkward position Anders has him in, nearly immobilized with his chest pressed into the mattress and feet splayed too wide apart for any effective movement.

“Good.” Anders smirks, grabbing one of Hawke's wrists in each hand and yanking them back, pulling on them to drag Hawke back until Anders is sheathed in him to the root. Hawke moans, writhing helplessly and quite obviously relishing every moment, enjoying it even more when Anders gathers his hands in the small of his back and pins them there one-handed, other hand reaching around to tease at his unattended cock.

It can't last for long, he knows and accepts, Hawke driven to the point of incoherence and himself having gone far too long without, Justice only allowing him the rare, occasional wank that Anders honestly – you couldn't lie to someone who shared your thoughts, they had found, to Anders great consternation – truly believed was a medical necessity, even then forcing Anders to keep his mind carefully clear of any thoughts not fit for polite company. _IT WOULD HAVE BEEN DISRESPECTFUL_ , the spirit intones from somewhere in the back of his mind, his thoughts unusually soft, almost subdued. Confused, but not hostile. _What is it? Are you alright?_ Somehow, talking to Justice in his head while fucking does not feel strange, not stranger than momentarily thinking of something else. _I,_ the spirit tries, _I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. YOUR FEELINGS FOR HIM ARE TENDER, AND YET... THIS._ Anders mentally shrugs. _He likes it._ He likes having his fingers licked, who's to say that Hawke can't like it a little rough? _KRISTOFF FELT LOVE FOR HIS WIFE, YET HE DID NOTHING OF THE KIND_ , the spirit argues. _People are different, Justice. They like different things._ A moment of silence, and then _...WHY?_ Anders lips twitches with amusement, and he remembers that Justice is still a friend, still delightfully weird and strangely sweet, and there are times that Anders is truly glad to have him sharing his head. _So,_ he thinks cheerfully, _are you sufficiently convinced he wouldn't mind if I polished the old staff thinking of him, or do you need a written contract? OH,_ answers Justice, and if thoughts can sound despondent this one definitely does. _YOU WILL STILL WISH TO MASTURBATE?_ The spirit thinks for a moment. _IN THAT CASE, I BELIEVE YOU ARE HONOURBOND TO THINK ONLY ABOUT THIS PARTICULAR MORTAL. You know,_ thinks Anders, _I can probably live with that_.

****

Afterwards, they lay tangled in an exhausted heap, sweaty and giddy and quite unable to stop touching each other. Anders mumbles something about never, ever wanting to leave, and Hawke answers with something ridiculous about sandwiches, but it's his sandwiches and he's offering them, and Anders vaguely remembers something Karl used to say about a Fereldan offering to share his food being practically a marriage proposal. Then Hawke is wrapping himself around Anders' back, and he's too warm for such displays of affection but it feels to good for him to move, and a heavy arm drapes itself across his chest while Hawke's nose rubs at the cartilage at the back of his ear. _'So don't,'_ he murmurs into Anders' ear, _'don't ever leave.'_

Anders hopes he won't have to, knows it's not something he can promise. _THE CAUSE MUST COME FIRST_ , Justice reminds him, then adds uncharacteristically gently _BUT CHERISH HIM IF YOU WISH. HE IS A GOOD MAN. Yes, he is_ , Anders privately agrees, _far too good for the likes of me_. Then Hawke squeezes him, pressing a chaste kiss to the join of his ear and his jaw, and Anders turns his mind to happier times, like the one right now. No sense not enjoying what you have, even more so when you're all to keenly aware that it must eventually end. So Anders only smiles and curls up in Hawke's arms, a shapely bearded jaw insinuating itself where his neck becomes his shoulder and _tickling_.

“Anders,” Hawke drawls lazily in his ear, all his usual bravado slotting neatly back in place.

“Yes?”

“If I do have some horrible exotic crotch rot, will you take care of me?”

Anders laughs.

“Of course I will. And then you'll do all the boring, menial housework for the next year as punishment if you've passed it on to me.”

Hawke blinks at him, mock innocence spread over his face like too much stage make-up.

“Housework? I have dwarves, Anders, I don't _do_ housework.”

Anders shrugs, catching the hand groping his chest and lazily interlacing their fingers.

“I'll talk to Bodahn about it. I think he'll listen, he likes me.”

“Oh?” says Hawke, grinning. “Need I be jealous? I've seen how you look at Varric, don't pretend you don't have a thing for dwarves.”

“Yes,” Anders deadpans, “it's the chest hair. I am sorry. I am very fond of you, but you will never satisfy me sexually with only these feeble tufts to work with.”

“Well,” says Hawke, eyes twinkling merrily, “there's always the dog.”

“Oh _ick_ , Hawke.”

Something softens in Hawke's eyes, and he brings Anders' hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles one by one. “Please,” he says in between kisses, “call me Garrett? Maybe not all the time, but here?” One last kiss to the tip of his thumb. “When we're like this?”

“Garrett,” agrees Anders, tugging his hand free and cupping Hawke's – no, _Garrett's_ face with it. The kiss that follows is slow and tender, and lasts for a long time.

“Don't worry,” Anders says breezily when they break apart, “I promise not to leave you for Bodahn. Or Varric. After all, you and I have _so_ much in common, to bring us together.” He grins evilly, waggles his eyebrows. “Like, say, the horrible, debilitating _itching_ we're about to experience.”

“Flames, Anders,” Hawke laughs through a grimace. “Don't remind me.”

“You've had it? How come nobody told me?”

Hawke snorts.

“It was before your time. I was – what, eighteen? Nineteen? – and there was this travelling troupe that passed by town. There was a girl,” he says, chuckling. “She got me drunk, took all my money _and_ apparently gave me the pox.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, that's not the best part,” Hawke continues, grinning. “You see, it itched. It itched something _fierce_. And Lothering was a small town – no healers, no herbalists, nothing – so what I finally had to do was...” He pauses, raising his eyebrows enquiringly, as if expecting Anders to continue the story.

“Ask... Your father?”

“Ask my father!” Hawke agrees, with surprising cheer. “And he knew how to make some kind of poultice, because apparently my old man got _around_ before he met mother. Only, he thought it was hilarious, and thought it was a fitting punishment for my idiocy that I had to tell the rest of the family. Over Sunday dinner. Whereupon Carver told all his friends, and Bethany for some inexplicable reason started leaving mustard in my underwear drawer.”

Anders blinks, suppressing his amusement until Hawke laughs himself.

“Mustard? Why mustard?”

“Beats me. I guess she must have gotten it out of some old wives' tale or something. You haven't heard anything about mustard as a cure for crotch rot?” Anders shakes his head, biting his lip, and Hawke continues. “Well, I suppose that if I were to drop mustard down my breeches it would significantly reduce the odds of me catching it again.”

“Don't be so sure of that, love.”

“You'd fuck a man who rubbed his cock with mustard?”

“Only if it were you. Besides, I rather like mustard.”

“Ah,” says Garret, in that tone that announces he has a truly awful joke lined up. “Good with,” he grins. Here it comes, thinks Anders. “ _Sausage_.” And he grins proudly, like that horribly juvenile joke was a great contribution to literature. Anders shakes his head, exasperated but happy. He used to have a never-ending supply of stupid jokes and ridiculous puns, he remembers, but he thinks his were a little bit more refined, more tasteful. A few that he remembers he still thinks were rather good, and if bloody Nathaniel Howe can't appreciate a good joke even if it trips him up and sits on his face it's hardly Anders fault, is it? “Anders?” Garret mumbles into his hair, arms once again wrapping around Anders' chest.

“Mmm?”

“If you move in with me, I'll let you rub mustard on me whenever you want.”

Anders chuckles, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with exertion or thick padded quilts spread throughout him.

“Sounds lovely. Buy a lot of mustard.”

“I'll ask Bodahn in the morning. I think it might sting, but for you, I'll face the wrath of every condiment in the pantry.”

“Hmm, wasn't there some of those Rivaini greenpeppers..?”

“ _Crap_.”


End file.
